Long Time...

Yes!

Janiveer

"The blackest month of all the year,
Is the month of Janiveer”

I talked in my last entry about Edith Holden's "Nature Notes for 1906". Ever since I did, I have been thinking more about it. This year would be the 101st anniversary of Holden's wonderful journal. I briefly considered starting a nature journal myself as a sort of amateur tribute to Holden, but decided that it would probably be so awful and so sparse, that it would be more of an insult than a tribute. However, I have started to take more note of nature around me.

For the first time in two semesters, I took my old bus route to work. As I was on the bus, I was paying close attention to nature, re: my resolution to make mental “Nature Notes for 2007”. However, I discovered that most of nature seems to be buried under snow right now. The best nature note that I can think of goes, “Today seems unusually warm for as harsh a winter as this. The snow still coats the ground, and icy pavements make walking mildly dangerous. Took the bus to work today. Was strangely delighted at the lack of humanfolk up and about at 8:00am. Most trees, except for the pines seem to still be waiting for the first touch of spring warmth. The pines themselves seem to be cheerfully withstanding the cold and frost. Was struck by the fact that not a single species of fauna was discernable all the way from Mortensen to campus via. Welch.”

See… hardly as romantic as cycling to neighboring towns, walking down riverbanks, and collecting violet leaves. I don’t think I am “Nature Notes” material, though I must say that when I typed that bit out, it seems infinitely more interesting than what I was actually experiencing. Maybe the artist in me is springing forth again. But Edith Holden and me… no comparison! Also, I doubt that there is any comparison between the flora and fauna of Warwickshire at the turn of the last century and those of Ames at any time in history. However, in my single-minded and relentlessly-enthusiastic fashion of sticking to resolutions, I shall try to continue and persist. Maybe, come spring, the bleak prospect will look much better!

Suum cuique pulchrum est

To each, his own is beautiful. (Cicero)

Something rather strange that just occurred to me...

Over the weekend, I watched John Le Carre's "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy". I have always loved Sir Alec Guinness, and ever since I saw "Edwin", I have been positively fanatic about him. So, I bathed in "Tinker, Tailor...", and was happy :)

I was collecting data for a research study this morning. It was all self-report and questionnaires, and all I had to do once I got the subjects started, was to wait for them to be done. So I took along "Rumpole..." to read while I waited. I was reading "Rumpole and the Hanging Judge" - the hanging Judge being Mr. Justice Fennimore Truscott, a fiendish man who jokes about murder trials and orders muffins for tea the day he sentences someone to be hanged; and who years later, has a twinge of guilt evoked in him by something Rumpole says. John Mortimer, who wrote “Rumpole…” wrote "Edwin" too... and the main protagonist in "Edwin" is Sir Fennimore Truscott, the hanging judge, albeit in the role of a rather endearingly stubborn and doubtful father played by Sir Alec Guinness. Now, is that a coincidence? I wonder...

I feel now, about my repertoire of literature, both poetry and prose, as an adult would. Gone are the days of my experimentative past: childhood, and adolescence, when I would read anything that I could lay my hands on. I think I have now started to trust my own reactions to the written word. I still like what I have always gravitated toward. My preferences in literature remain unchanged. I think I am at a point where, for the most part, I am satisfied with reading books which come from this small, select domain. I will of course make the occasional foray into the world of literature hitherto unexplored by me, for I am convinced that gems exist there too. But those that shine most brilliantly and appear most beautiful to my eyes, are those that are closer home... the tomes that resided on daddy's bookshelves, and replicas of which now do on mine. So I am not surprised about that strange coincidence after all. I love both John Mortimer and John Le Carre, and since the casting decisions have fortunately placed Sir Alec in both "Tinker, Tailor..." and "Edwin", there might be similar, complex undercurrents of preferences that lie somewhere other than me.

Over the weekend, I also managed to read some poetry. In a burst of semi-feminist enthusiasm, I decided to read a female poet for a change. So, I read Christina Rossetti. One particular part of one particular poem seemed especially poignant. It reminded me of Edith Holden and her "Nature Notes". It also reminded me of the wonderfully pleasant summers of my childhood.

"... some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, ..."

That reminds me of the summers I had in Hyderabad. It was a simpler life, slower paced, more trusting, and happier. The days were too hot to do anything of particular value, but I used to read a lot, take wonderfully refreshing siestas in the afternoons, and in the evenings, when it was cooler, my sister and I would play on the terrace. Drowsy… languid… perfect words to describe those summer days. And I hope, and perhaps even know, that summers will be like that again. The thought is such a happy one, that it keeps me going through all the harshness of the winter about me.

The Golden Road to Samarkand

I was watching "Rumpole". And Rumpole, being Rumpole, was quoting poetry as usual. He quoted something that brought back a deluge of memories. He spoke about the golden road to Samarkand. I felt that somehow the floodgates of forgotten memories had been opened. I felt shaken, and almost cried, for right in the middle of the strange crises of adulthood, he had called to my mind one of the most vivid dreams of my childhood. He had reminded me of a longing I had felt since my childhood, of taking the golden road, and of entering the gates of Samarkand.

It was somewhere between the ages of 7 and 9 when I first heard my father mention "The golden road to Samarkand". It was a phrase, quite out of its original context. I never thought it belonged in a poem. I thought it was one of those odd sentences, heard in one's childhood that happily haunts one's memories even years later. Those words caught my childish fancy. I did not know where Samarkand was. But by the name I imagined it to belong in the Arabian nights. The second I heard of it was when I was about 11 years old. I was reading the history of the Mughals, a daunting, but exciting volume in my father's small library. I read the story of Emperor Babar as a child longing to enter the golden gates of Samarkand. I imagined it to be a bustling city full of busy bazaars, with peculiar looking street vendors selling their exotic wares - spices, incense and delightfully odd unnamed concoctions. There was the old-world charm of the Arabian nights, the wise old men puffing off at their hookahs, the birds, the animals, the smoke, and the earthy, musky fragrances of the people and the land. This Samarkand existed nowhere but my imagination. Yet, I could see, smell and taste all its wonders. As a child and perhaps even now, my Samarkand seems so exquisitely tangible; I could almost reach out and touch its arcane secrets and unknown treasures.

But equally fascinating to me was the road - the golden road to Samarkand. I always was a loner at heart, never needing anyone else, never wanting anyone else to enter that world of my own, the sacrosanct land of childish fantasies, from where the world of grown ups seems so dull. It was the same with this journey. I wanted to travel to Samarkand alone, discover its riches and wonders alone, so that in some strange way it would belong only to me. I think I had subconsciously even resolved to travel there when I was old enough. I think I imagined myself to be a sort of Dick Whittington. I think I still do. The road and the journey seemed to promise exhilarating thrills and exciting experiences. I still want to take the road and relive the happiest years of my life - my childhood, when under the protective eyes of my parents I built that fantasy land where I go even today when the burdensome worries of my adulthood grow too heavy for me to bear.

I think as an adult, the road seems more a metaphor. I have attempted a few short forays onto the road, but always returned to the calling of responsibility and maturity. But one of these days, I'll bundle up my belongings, and set off down the golden road for good; the child in me singing and hopeful. I will reach my Samarkand one day. And it will be as beautiful, as exciting and as wonderful as I have always known it will be.


We travel not for trafficking alone;
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. ~Flecker

Ad interim

It is raining outside. I had thought it would snow. But somehow, the weather seems to have taken a turn for the better. I love rainy afternoons… the wetness somehow reminds me of my early adulthood. The happiest days of my life were set amid lush greenery and damp, wet weather. When I went to college in Kerala, water seemed to flow in abundance everywhere. In retrospect, it almost seems as though the very presence of water there washed away all the unpleasantness that I experienced. I can’t remember with any considerable grief the sadness that touched my life then. But I can vividly remember the happiness, the independence and the love. And I remember the water. But there were places where the water seemed to engulf the senses most.

I remember accompanying my friends to the temples where they paid obeisance to deities unbeknownst to me. Temples in Kerala are perpetually damp. Moss grows on the walls and the ground, making it necessary for one to tread carefully. I remember wondering how there always seemed to be water dripping off the clay-tiled roofs of the smaller structures within the walled premises of the temple grounds. Water was everywhere. There was water at the little pond where people would wash their feet before entering the consecrated ground. There was water at the corners of the building… for devotees to touch to their foreheads. And, there always was an aging priest sitting in front of a large stone – grinding sandalwood. He would sprinkle the water on the stone, wet the wood, and rub away, grinding the wood into a creamy paste. The water that dripped down the stone looked milky and was fragrant. Water seemed to be everywhere.

And I remember the sea. When I was still at college, I remember I could easily get done with my schoolwork, leaving the weekends open and free. I would leave the hostel on Saturday mornings, take the bus into town, and then walk through the blockade of buildings that separated civilization from the sea. Once I hit the beginnings of sand, I would take my shoes off, roll the fabric of my salwaar up, and walk closer until I reached the water. I remember wondering anew each time, how the sea remained so cold, when the sand that fringed it was warm. Then I would walk back to the rocks, perch myself upon one and look towards the sea. I could sit there for hours, spellbound, no worry in my heart, no bitterness, and no pain. There I learnt what it means to be one with the elements. It is strange how such beauty could go unheeded, because I remember that very few people ever went to the beach that I frequented. It was as though people did not want that solitude or calm that I so greatly needed. I would sit there, sometimes until dusk, when I knew I had to return to the hostel before curfew. Some days, I would return to town earlier for a luncheon before returning home. And every time I turned back to go home, I remember looking at the lighthouse that stood on the beach. A friend had once told me how he once went to the top of the lighthouse – he had managed to catch the lighthouse keeper and persuaded him to take him up. I tried more than once in vain to find him, but I never did. Not once in my four years there. When I left Kasaragod, I remember promising myself that one day, I would return and ascend the lighthouse. But along with the memory of the sea, my desire to visit the lighthouse has faded too. I might not remember the touch of the water and the wind on my skin, but I remember how I felt. I felt clear and clean and pure. And I will never forget that. It is raining today. And I feel the same. As though somehow my guilt was taken away from me. As though I somehow have finally been set free. I am happy. And, I don’t regret it.

Disjecta membra

I am drunk. I always thought that on my 40th birthday, I would leave my family for a day, check into a hotel, open a large bottle of claret and get drunk. I would sit on the couch and drink straight from the bottle. I would feel the heaviness rise in my hands, making it pleasurably difficult to raise the bottle to my lips again. Then I would feel the drunkenness grow within me. And I would feel all the despair of being forty, and all the joy of everything I had accomplished in those years. But I am drunk today. I am a little over 27. I am sitting alone at home, the lights turned off. I have no family. I doubt that I ever will. I have a large bottle of claret. And I am drinking. I feel the heaviness in my body. And I feel the despair. I feel the sadness, the hopelessness and the pain. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t find anything to be joyful about. The heaviness isn’t just the wine. It’s my heart, my soul, my mind, my thoughts… I feel like I have aged 15 years. I feel nothing but the pain. I have suffered all the miseries of love, and none of its joys.

“The rain to the wind said,
"You push and I'll pelt."
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged -- though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.” ~ Robert Frost